


Mess, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: Northern Exposure, The West Wing
Genre: Crossover, Episode: s02e07 The Portland Trip, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-09
Updated: 2001-12-09
Packaged: 2019-05-15 08:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Stanley comes back to the White House...um, but he's really Adam, from Northern Exposure.





	Mess, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

 

Title: The Mess  
Author: Bramble  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Stanley comes back to the White House...um, but he's really Adam, from Northern Exposure.  
Category: General, Cross-over (Northern Exposure)  
Spoilers: Um, I guess Noel (and perhaps The Crackpots and These Women).  
Disclaimers: I'm sorry.  
Feedback: is scrumptious.  
Notes: See, it all started when Eve showed up in Gone Quiet as that anti-NEA woman. Anyway, I posted on a WW list about wanting Stanley (aka:Adam) to come back and hook up with Eve (aka: NEA-Woman). Then, the next thing I knew, Adam came to the White House and took over the mess. *sigh*

* * *

"Donna!"

"Hmmmmm?"

"What the hell are you doing down here?" Josh stares at his assistant and then frowns, realizing the odd noise level in the mess. He looks around, surprised to see every single table full and what he thinks is country music -- if he really strains his ears.

"What he hell is going on?"

"Mmmmm...Josh. You wouldn't believe..." she trails off and chews a bit more, rolling her eyes appreciatively, then takes a big gulp of red wine. "This food...is...amazing. Here try this," she holds a forkful of pink meat out to him.

He steps back. "No way. That's still mooing. What the hell is it?"

"Venison medallions with shiitake port sauce, so, you know, about the mooing..." she starts.

He wrinkles his nose. "Deer? Donna, you're eating deer?"

"I know!" She exclaims. "It's crazy. But...you wouldn't believe how delicious it is. There's this new chef, no one knows where he came from. He just sort of took over. At first I thought it was Stanley..."

"My Stanley?" He asks, interrupting her.

"Yeah. From last Christmas, not your other Stanley. Anyway," she nods with another mouthful of venison. "but this one, the not-not-Stanley looks...dirtier...but he can cook. Oh my god, can he cook."

"Behind you!" comes a shout, as he moves in closer to Donna's chair.

Josh turns to see Ainsley, her hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, carrying a big tray of plates heaping with more venison medallions with shiitake port sauce. And something else, something that looks like...mashed potatoes, but not ordinary mashed potatoes.

"Oh! Ainsley! I didn't get any mashed potato and swiss chard terrine!" Donna shouts after her.

"Donna, we're running a bit low, but I'll see what I can do," she yells over her shoulder, before stopping at a table loaded with anxious looking travel office staff.

"Donna, why is Ainsley serving food?"

She shrugs, before taking another big sip of wine. "She was one of the first ones down here after *he* came. She worked out some sort of deal -- I think she gets as much food as she wants in exchange for serving."

"What about the secret service?" Josh demands, looking more and more confused.

Donna cocks her head to the right and then squeals in delight as Ainsley slides a small dish of mashed potato terrine over to her.

"We were out of the potatoes but that's from my supply," Ainsley comments, giving Donna a wink as she passes with yet another heavy, loaded tray.

After watching Donna take a big mouthful of the creamy terrine and make an interesting noise he can only describe as orgasmic -- although he can only fondly guess what orgasmic-Donna would sound like, of course -- Josh quickly shakes his head and looks over in the direction she had indicated earlier.

He observes Ron Butterfield and about ten other men in dark suits sitting around a table devouring two large food-covered platters.

Donna follows Josh's gaze and laughs. "He made them baby beets and pistachio crusted goat cheese on a bed of frisee with pinot noir vinaigrette and squash blossom quesadillas...I think they're okay with him."

"Not-not-Stanley," Josh confirms and then sighs impatiently, wondering when the entire White House had collectively lost its mind.

"Okay. This is insane. I'm going back there and getting my usual burnt burger."

"Oh. Josh. I'm really not sure you want to do that. Here, just try some of my..."

"No! Donna! This is ridiculous! I'm the Deputy Chief of Staff of the White House! And I want my well-done hamburger with fries and that's exactly what I'm going to get," he says heatedly, heading towards the kitchen area, while Donna takes a deep sigh, shrugs, and then eats another bite of venison.

* * *

The mess gets quiet for a brief moment after the loud clatter, then quickly, people start eating and talking again.

Actually, it isn't the first loud clanging noise of the lunch hour.

Donna gasps in surprise when Josh heads back over to her, shiitake port sauce dripping from his head and shoulders, down his suit and onto the floor.

"Oh, Josh."

"That's definitely not Stanley."

"No," she answers pulling him down into the chair next to her and trying to wipe at his head with a napkin.

"And, ah, he's not going to make me a hamburger...in fact, he says I don't get any lunch today," he says, licking a little of the sauce by his mouth.

"Oh wow, that is good."

Donna nods. "I'm sorry...you want to try some of mine now?"

She gives him a little look and slides her plate over, continuing to try to clean him up a bit.

"Here take my fork." He does and takes a bite tentatively, as a loud shout from Toby makes everyone turn their heads in that direction to see Ainsley trying to reason with the older man.

"What do you mean I can't get any ketchup?"

"Toby, I just think that the chef, Adam, would be offended if you ask for..."

"And why do I care if I offend this Adam?" He asks, before yelling, "and why the hell are you down here serving...?"

"Toby, really, just try the medallions with the shiitake sauce. It's really good."

"No. I want ketchup and I want it now," he shouts.

"You. Want. Ketchup?" A voice asks calmly.

Everyone gasps as a unkempt man with a ratty knit hat, long straggly hair, and no shoes walks slowly over to where Toby's sitting. As he passes Josh, he notices Donna's plate in front of him and pauses to grab it away savagely, causing a medallion to slide down onto Josh's lap.

"And you...I told you no lunch. Don't you people listen?"

"That was, um..mine," Donna answers quietly.

"Yours? That was yours? No, I'll tell you what -- that was mine. My food, that I was gracious enough to let you eat. You," he pauses to glare at her. "No dinner for you."

Donna gasps and Josh snickers a little, causing Adam to turn back to the Deputy Chief of Staff. "Oh, you don't get dinner either," he states gruffly. "Ainsley!"

"Yes, Adam?" She fawns, running over to take Josh and Donna's plate of half-eaten food.

"Remind me -- what are we having for dinner tonight?"

"Seared salmon with Asian five spices, vegetable spring rolls, spicy adzuki bean paste, and shredded daikon salad with an aged soy and caramel sauce," she prattles off the top of her head, in a breathless drawl, a dreamy expression on her face.

The mess erupts in ohh's, ahhh's, and even some clapping, except for Josh and Donna, who start to poke each other accusingly and pout.

"Who wanted the ketchup?" Adam asks, shaking a bottle of Heinz tomato ketchup in his right hand.

"Ah, that was Toby," Ainsley replies hesitantly, pointing to where the Communications Director is sitting.

Adam walks over there as all eyes follow him.

"You think my food needs ketchup?" He asks gruffly.

"I requested ketchup, yes."

"Toby, maybe you should just..."

"Who are you?" Adam demands, turning his attention to the left of Toby.

"I'm Sam Seaborn, Deputy Communications Director," he holds his hand out but Adam just stares at him disgustedly.

"Was I talking to you?" He asks, interrupting Sam and most defenitely not shaking his hand.

"No."

"Do I have to have Ainsley take your plate too?"

"Nooo," Sam answers, pulling his lunch closer to him.

"You people wouldn't know good food if it walked up to you and introduced itself. Sloooowly. Three years of living with the Penobscot tribe in New England. The Tribe Elder gave me this recipe himself after days and days of earning his trust...and you think it needs ketchup?" He spits out, voiced raised. "You people are culinary simpletons! Why don't we all just head over the the McDonald's on E Street and get happy meals? That seems more like you people's style!"

"This really isn't a happy meal," Josh mutters to Donna, causing Adam to turn around.

"Are you talking?"

"No," Josh answers, eyes widening with fear.

"And I swear, if you start trying to tell me your feelings again...I'm about this close to banning you permanently." Adam adds, before turning back around to Toby, glaring, and then taking the lid off the ketchup.

He then proceeds to shake the common red condiment all over Toby's plate of venison, then, throws the glass bottle to the side of the room, where thankfully, it just bounces off the wall and lands on the floor with a thud.

Ainsley goes to retrieve it but Adam stops her. "No leave it. Let that be a reminder to anyone else that thinks my lunch menu is missing a little...je ne sais quoi."

He turns back to a stunned Toby, who clearly isn't used to dealing with someone who's more grumpy than he is.

"There! I hope you're happy! I hope that's more to your liking now!" Adam shouts and then turns, muttering to himself, as his dirty, bare feet pad along the tiles, back to the kitchen.

* * *

The End

  


End file.
